Arenaby Pat Black

Genre:DramaSwearwords: A few strong ones.Description:The
life of a Warrior King is filled with perils... particularly when you must
marshal your army in a little case on a train out of Glasgow Central._____________________________________________________________________Makk
Mhorn, the warrior chief, surveyed his troops with his arms folded in front of
his chest, imperious. It was true that there was honour in defeat, and it was
expected that great generals were magnanimous ones – but even so, he could not
prevent a smile of smug satisfaction from twisting his face. With his
opponent’s cavalry scattered to the winds and his infantry decimated, victory
now was surely a formality. The triumph was much the sweeter as his opponent,
General Meggido, had carried a fearsome reputation onto the field.

This same Meggido was now a study in misery. This defeat – with so many watching – would be a severe blow to his reputation. His tactics had been wrong from the start, his positioning amateurish, and he had been aghast as Makk Mhorn’s shocktroops made short work of his war towers. The end had been inevitable, but painfully slow in the execution. It was a rout. Meggido sighed. He had defensive options, but all of them would result in his generals being captured or slain. If the game had been chess, it would have been no bad thing to concede. There was no way out.“There is no disgrace in surrender,” Makk Mhorn called out, bowing his head nobly.Megiddo smarted as if from a blow. “Go fuck yourself, four eyes.”Then he rolled the dice, scattering them across the arena and narrowly missing Makk Mhorn’s front line of infantry, his Unbeatables. The mighty spearmen, modelled after Greek hoplite warriors except with Mohawks, remained impassive in the face of this menace, frozen in aspects of war, their weapons and shields held high – two inches high, to be exact.Makk Mhorn’s miniature army featured a wide range of lovingly-painted personnel – from muscular, masked lieutenants bearing warhammers to samurai sword-wielding generals. The cavalry were perhaps most striking of all, with masks fashioned to look like the heads of great birds of prey. They rode enormous half-horse, half-robot steeds with red eyes, and carven smoke curling out of their nostrils. To look at them, Meggido’s opposing army were the more ferocious bunch; demonic skeleton creatures whose yellowed bone showed through the gaps in their spiky armour, an army of the dead even down to the grinning skulls of the war horses and the interlocked animal bones that made up their siege towers. But the day was not theirs.Makk Mhorn grunted as the dice showed two ones. Snake eyes; there was one turn of the dice left, relating to combat, but this low score consigned Meggido to defeat.And he reacted with fury. He reached into the arena, and swept Makk Mhorn’s army away with a snort of disgust. “Watch what you’re doing, you idiot!” Makk Mhorn cried, reaching out to scoop up his men. Meggido – thirteen years old, five foot two and not yet bearing the pimples or bumfluff of adolescence - stalked away to join his friends. Most of them suppressed sniggers over their friend’s humiliation; the rest of the watching crowd were less circumspect.“Right, boys! Take it easy, there.” Gandalf strode over to the gaming tables from behind the counter. He was so called because of his age, a positively geriatric 31, and also because of his beard, which was not long and white but short and woollen. Nor was he tall and wizardly with flowing gowns, but portly and poorly attired in a tight black T-shirt with “Games Arena” stencilled over the top. “No arguments, now, boys. Shake hands. Remember the Code of Honour.”Meggido, stifling tears of rage, held himself in check and offered a hand to his conqueror. Makk Mhorn, thirteen and a half, a little taller than his enemy but with bumfluff and pimples to go with the pebble glasses, shook it earnestly. “A fine contest,” he said, voice breaking on the last syllable. “Maybe we should have a rematch?”“Sure,” Meggido said, somewhat pacified. “That sounds good.”“Next Saturday?”“Fine.”The watching crowd dispersed, allowing both players to pick up their games pieces in silence. The arena was, even compared to the products that surrounded them on the shelves, a stunningly detailed piece of work, even down to its worn steps and pitted stonework. It would have passed for a facsimile of the Coliseum, except for certain embellishments around the stonework such as the severed heads set on spikes, and the genuine demons crouching on columns in lieu of gargoyles. Rather than a Caesar, a massive reproduction of HP Lovecraft’s Cthulhu presided over the scene on a raised platform, idly cramming a flailing naked woman into his tentacled maw. The arena itself was a gaming table, of generous dimensions and covered in green felt. There was not a drop of blood on its surface – though who knew how many soldiers had died there? American Civil War troops, desert Saracens, German stormtroopers, Roman gladiators, ancient Picts, Napoleonic musketeers and all the warriors that the realms of science fiction and fantasy could conjure clashed here. The rules of engagement were determined by a roll of the dice and a horribly complicated scoring system. Pallid boys and taciturn, bearded men gathered every Saturday and Sunday – in greater numbers than many outside would have supposed – and sometimes on weeknights as well during the school holidays, bearing their lovingly created plastic soldiers and monsters, eager to do battle at Games Arena. Today was Makk Mhorn’s day. There was little else to be said as he packed his soldiers away into the felt-lined case, placing them one after another in their designated sentry boxes. One of Meggido’s friends sneered something as Makk Mhorn – who had no friends with him that day – closed the silver chrome-effect case over and fastened the catches. But the winning general ignored him, striding out with his head held high in the glow of victory. “Bye, Malcolm,” Gandalf said. “You fought well today.”“The gods favoured me,” quoth Makk Mhorn. “But tomorrow, who knows?” He gave the warrior’s salute, a fist pressed twice against the breastbone. Gandalf solemnly returned it.It was hot outside, the first weekend in July, and the streets were thronged with people. Makk Mhorn cared little for them, swinging his case in total abandonment, lost in the mists of imagination. Under the afternoon sun he imagined he had actually been there in the arena, blinking under an alien sky as his army clashed with Meggido’s. He heard the screams of pain and terror mingling with shouts of bloodlust and rage, saw the splintered bone and the oozing, blackened marrow of the enemy; and he savoured the howls of the crowd, the knowledge that the day was his. He might even join his infantry in the final surge, leading from the front, slashing with his great broadsword and pushing his troops onward to glory.The noticeboard at the station showed that his train was bang on time, and it awaited him on Platform 11. As was his habit, Makk Mhorn took up a position closest to the driver’s compartment up front. The carriage was populated only by an elderly lady and two older teenage girls. Sat with his back to the carriage wall, Makk Mhorn sat down with his shining silver case placed on the seat beside him. An afternoon of watching DVDs and playing video games stretched out before him. It was that first week of the summer holidays, when the long nights of freedom all ahead of him. A good time, whether one had friends or not. The journey began, and the train rumbled over the bridge and made its way into the south of the city. Makk Mhorn’s stop was the seventh on the line; but it was the very first station on the route that signposted the point when the general’s fortunes changed. Six other boys had to sprint down the platform to make the train in time, cramming inside the first carriage in a sudden, whooping crush of teenage bodies just as the doors bleeped a warning. They were older than Makk Mhorn, but he did not feel any unease upon sight of them. They were fairly well-dressed in jeans and pristine branded T-shirts, and not in the sports livery worn by the tribes that might have caused the general some concern.They sat down in the seat diagonal to Makk Mhorn’s position. One of them, a small boy with close-cropped ginger hair, turned in his seat and surveyed Makk Mhorn as the train moved off.“What you lookin’ at, poof?”Makk Mhorn blinked, and immediately turned his face to the window. His heart began to kick.“Hey, specky. I’m talking to you,” the ginger boy said. “What you looking at? Eh?”“Nothing,” Makk Mhorn mumbled. “Better be nothing. Fucking faggot.”Another of the boys – who was taller, pockmarked and with long shiny hair - raised a hand, even as the others tittered. “Hey, it’s alright, mate,” he said to Makk Mhorn. “It’s cool.” He came over – a good six foot one of him; he would have been a candidate for the front ranks of any infantry – and sat down in the seat immediately in front of the general. “Hey, sorry about that, mate. Don’t worry. My friend got a bit excited in the warm weather. How do you do?” He extended a hand.Makk Mhorn shook it. “Not bad,” he croaked.“What’s that you’ve got there?” The boy nodded towards Makk Mhorn’s case. Its chrome coating was diamond bright in the sunshine.“Uh, just my Games Arena stuff.”“Games Arena! My wee brother’s into all that stuff. Wee soldiers and that, eh?”“Yeah. Your wee brother’s a poof an’ all,” said the ginger boy. “Shut it,” the older boy said. There was something in the commanding tone that both silenced the ginger boy and calmed Makk Mhorn. “Yeah, just.... games and stuff,” Makk Mhorn said. “Daft stuff.”“Mind if I see them?” the boy said. Between the hanging curtains of his fringe, he had a clear, honest brow and a bright smile. “Uh, I’ve put them away, for now,” Makk Mhorn said. “It’ll take ages to take them out.”“Really? That’s no trouble.” The boy’s tone barely changed as he snatched the case.Makk Mhorn gripped the handle instinctively, and the case strained between the two boys momentarily. “Yes, sorry,” the general babbled. “I’ve put them away, you see. Takes ages to set them all up.”The boy gave a terrific tug and the case squirmed out Makk Mhorn’s grip. The other boys whooped as their leader held it up before them. “Let’s see what he’s got, eh?”Makk Mhorn, aghast, leapt up grabbed the case back off the boy. It flew away from the other’s grip and clattered off the far wall of the carriage. The case broke open, and Makk Mhorn’s army – cavalry, siege towers, captains, infantry, catapults and beasts of war – scattered across the carriage in a hail of plastic. The tall boy frowned at Makk Mhorn for a moment, then punched him full in the face. A terrible crack resounded through the carriage, and a wet crunch exploded in the centre of Makk Mhorn’s head. His glasses flew off his face even as he dropped to the floor, his elbows taking some, but not all of the impact. As he sat up, he knew that the warm, sticky flow tickling his lips and chin was his own blood. He clapped a hand to his face, and coughed as blood flowed back down his throat. Looking down, he saw thick red drops, insistent as a leaky tap, spotting the lap of his jeans.Then the sole of a training shoe filled Makk Mhorn’s vision; he turned away from the worst of it, but it connected painfully with his exposed ear. Then the boy with the ginger hair was kneeling on his chest, punching him repeatedly on the face. Makk Mhorn clapped his hands to his head and they absorbed most of the blows, but he was pinned to the floor, immobile. The carriage was filled with laughing and screeching. The latter sound was not made by the boys. “Here! Get off there!” It was the old lady’s voice. “Get off that lad! You’re a bloody disgrace!”“Get off him!” This was one of the teenage girls. “Leave him alone! That’s pure shocking, by the way!”The knees lifted off Makk Mhorn’s chest, and he took a whooping breath before sitting up. When he uncovered his eyes, the ginger boy was glaring at him, lips twisted and nose wrinkled in contempt. “Fucking poof. Lucky I didn’t kill you.” He fetched one last punch against Makk Mhorn’s temple, and lightning seared across the general’s vision. Then the boys were gone; the train had stopped at a station. As he slowly sat up, blood oozing out of his nose, one of them slapped the window, brandishing one of Makk Mhorn’s sword-wielding shock troops. The boy raised a thumb. “Cheers mate!” he called.Inside the carriage, the old lady and the two girls tended to the fallen general. The woman held a handkerchief against his nose, while the two girls recovered the silvery Games Arena case. “Help him get his wee men, too,” the old lady said, patting Makk Mhorn on the back. “We’ll help you. Oh, I’m so sorry pal,” one girl said, rubbing Makk Mhorn’s head. “I’m so sorry. What a bunch of bastards. We’ll take you home.”“I can’t find them all,” the other girl said, scooping handfuls of soldiers into the case. “I think I’ve got most of them, though. All of the big ones are still in there.” Staring at the white handkerchief, stained almost completely red with his blood, Makk Mhorn took a deep breath, and began to sob.

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About the Author

Pat Black is a thirtysomething writer, journalist and bletherer, born and raised in Glasgow. He says he has made that difficult transition from aspiring novelist to failed novelist, although he has had a couple of short stories published. He’s the author of Snarl, a completed novel about a monster that tries to mount the Houses of Parliament. Holyrood emerges unscathed, for now.

If you enjoy Pat’s short stories, you’ll find a whole compendium of them – three dozen, in fact – in his Kindle collection, Suckerpunch, which can be downloaded at these links on Amazon.co.uk and Amazon.com.